Friday, October 30, 2015

I was cleaning out the
refrigerator this morning wondering how it could possibly get so dirty so
quickly. Feels like I just cleaned it
out the other day.

In truth, it was
probably six months ago, but, y’know, time goes fast. Especially when you’re doing things you looove
– like scrubbing the interior of the fridge.

Yeah, I’m fibbing. I’d have to be insane to actually enjoy cleaning out the fridge.

Oh, that’s not
nice. I suppose there is someone out there who enjoys performing those
sorts of tasks. The only enjoyment I get
out of it is when it’s done. Well, that –
and when I open the fridge later and am pleasantly surprised by how clean and
orderly it is.

But, anyway, I was
thinking as I was donning those lovely yellow rubber gloves and dunking my
hands in the hot, soapy water, that I’m actually lucky.

I’m lucky that I can
still get the dirt out of both the lowest drawers and the highest shelves in the
fridge. I’m lucky that I have the
strength to scrub the parts that need scrubbing. I’m lucky to have the
dexterity to pull the glass shelves out and carefully clean them without
breaking the glass.

And, even though my
vision is far from 20/20, I am lucky to still be able to see every speck of
dirt and mysterious splotch of gunk that is in that fridge – and I have the
ability to clean it.

Hunh. Who knew there were reasons to feel lucky about
cleaning a fridge?

I suppose I feel luckier
to be able to do these sorts of mundane tasks when I realize how many people
out there are unable to perform them.

Like a friend on
Facebook who is wheelchair-bound. She recently posted that she dropped a bag of chips
onto the floor – and was unable to pick them up. I loved that she kept her sense of humor and said
it was probably a hint that she shouldn’t be eating the chips!

But it made me realize that
if I drop something on the floor and make a mess, instead of being annoyed, I
should feel fortunate that I am still able to crawl around on the floor to
clean it up.

Guess I’d better make a
note and remind myself of that the next time I knock over that mega-sized bag
of basmati rice, as I did recently. Instead of the, um, choice words I actually used, I should instead have been muttering,
“I’m lucky…I’m lucky…I’m soooo lucky!”

I think we all tend to
take our health and abilities for granted and only realize how fortunate we
were when those things are gone.

Take, for example, my parents who recently spent nearly a week with us here in Columbus. We celebrated my mother’s
90th birthday, although she doesn’t remember she’s 90. Or perhaps she just conveniently forgot that
little fact on purpose. Who knows? It’s hard to tell with Mom who has been
dealing with Alzheimer’s for the past several years.

One moment, she will seem
like her old self and will carry on an intelligent conversation, and the next
moment, she is whispering under her breath about how confused and scared she
is. Each and every time she does the
latter, my heart breaks a little more for her.

I try to give her a
reassuring hug and casually repeat whatever fact she can’t remember and is
stressing over, whether it’s where she left her purse or how old her granddaughter
is. But I try to fit it into the conversation so she doesn’t know I’ve heard
her.

Mom still tries to
pretend she’s that strong, sharp, eagle-eyed woman who never missed a
thing. I’m not sure she realizes how
much she has changed or how noticeable it is to the rest of us.

But no matter what, I
try to keep in mind that she is the woman who has loved me my entire life. Who took
care of me when I was a baby and didn’t know how to dress or walk or
speak. And when I was confused or
frustrated over a simple task like tying my shoes, she was the person who clarified
and explained and instructed. She never made me feel stupid for not knowing
something. And she encouraged me every
step of the way. So if I can do those
things for her now and still allow her to maintain her dignity, then I am
honored to do so.

And then there is my
dad. His macular degeneration has
progressed to the point that we wonder how much he actually sees. He does a great job of pretending around us
because, I suspect, he doesn’t want us to intervene and mandate that he and Mom
move to an Assisted Living facility.

He’s much more comfortable
in the house they’ve lived in for nearly 50 years. He knows without looking
where the silverware and glasses are stored. He knows exactly where in the
fridge the milk resides. And he doesn’t have to figure out which remote
operates the television and which button mutes the commercials. On the other hand, our complicated
system with three different remotes confuses him.

But, to be fair, they
confuse me, too. So it’s not necessarily about age or diminishing vision.

Yet, Dad cannot see the
dirt in the refrigerator shelves or the mysterious splotch of gunk at the
bottom of the vegetable drawer – so my sister and I surreptitiously clean it
when he’s not around.

Or I off-handedly
mention that I’m doing laundry and will wash his sweater that has stains
from food that fell off his fork at dinner the night before. When he does
laundry, he cannot see the spots requiring pre-treatment, so their clothes come
out of the dryer still stained. And to see my once-dignified, capable, and always-in-control
parents wearing stained clothing makes me so sad.

So, yes, I’m lucky that
I can still scrub a tub or clean the floor or wash the inside of the
fridge. I’m lucky that I can do laundry
and our clothes are clean and (relatively) free of permanent stains. And I’m
lucky that I still know how old my niece is or where I left my purse – even if
I sometimes have those brief lapses when I forget where I left my keys.

Ah, but doesn't it look clean and organized?!

Aging happens to the
best of us, despite every attempt we make at staying young. So today,
especially, I’m reminding myself that I am lucky. I may not wake up full of energy and
completely pain-free (and unwrinkled) as I did in my younger years, but I woke
up capable of accomplishing most of the things on my to-do list.

Well, except perhaps the one thing on my list. Replacing the burned out light bulb in the 15
foot ceiling in the living room might just be beyond my capabilities
today. But, hey, I never claimed to be Superwoman!

And instead of sighing
as I haul yet another load of clothes from the dryer to the bedroom to fold and
hang and put away, I am taking a moment to look at the canvas print in my
laundry room that reads: “Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you’ll
look back and realize they were the big things.”

Hmmm. Truer words…

So however you spend
your day, take time to appreciate and enjoy it. For these ARE the big things.

Friday, October 16, 2015

A few days ago my friend
Sesame and I went to the mall to get a pedicure.That was as far as we’d planned, so I figured
that I’d be home in a few short hours – even after factoring in lunch at
California Pizza Kitchen once the shiny color on our tootsies dried.

I had a neighborhood
Oktoberfest to attend later that evening, and I was in charge of decorations, so I knew I had to be home in time to set up.

I planned to get ready
for the evening after I returned home from my pedicure, so before I left the
house to head to the mall, I put very little effort into applying makeup or
fixing my hair.

I simply pulled my hair
back in a clip and then slapped on a little lip color, eyeliner and some pressed
powder to hide the worst of my flaws and took off to meet my friend.

I didn’t even bother with
mascara – and that’s something I rarely leave home without. I just figured it
would be easier to apply it one time later that evening than to remove it first
and then re-apply it. For those unschooled on mascara, it isn’t so much the
application that’s the hassle, it’s the removal of it. Especially when the
waterproof variety is involved.

At any rate, like most
of my ingenious ideas, I was not home anywhere near “a couple hours.”

The pedicure morphed
into an all-day shopping extravaganza, which culminated with a makeover at
Sephora.

And, sure, I’d love to
blame Sesame for the Sephora stop, but it was all my idea.

I hadn’t even really
intended to go into Sephora. One could
spend the better part of a paycheck there and since I no longer earn a paycheck,
I figure it’s best to avoid even eye contact with the perky, perfectly-made-up
Sephora girl. You know the one – wearing all that head-to-toe très chic black standing
at the entrance of the store ready to hand you that little cloth bucket in
which to stash all your new makeup until you get to the cash register.

Trust me, I know her
siren song.

So whenever I have to
walk through the mall, I usually avert my eyes as I approach the store with the
black-and-white striped walls. Sometimes I even cross to the other side of the
mall just to be safe.

But I guess my defenses
were down on Saturday and I told Sesame I needed some new eye shadow. But that
was all I needed.

Ah, what wondrous items does this bag hold?!

Yeah, right. Anyone who is a fan of Sephora knows you may
walk into the store intending to purchase only one thing, but you walk out with
a bagful. A small bagful, mind you, which costs you an arm and a leg, but a
bagful nonetheless.

You know how there is a
rule of not going into a grocery store to buy food when you’ve skipped
lunch?

Well, I think the rule at Sephora
should be that before you go, you must take – at a minimum – a full hour to
carefully apply your makeup. Think of it
as if you’re getting ready for a photo shoot for the cover of a magazine.

That way, when you walk into Sephora, you’ll
think you already look pretty darn good and don’t need all those shiny pots and
potions awaiting you inside. You can dash in, pick up the one item you need,
and rush to the sales counter to pay for that one item.

And those perky sales
girls…er, excuse me – “expert makeup consultants” – will pretty much leave you
alone seeing as how you clearly have a full case of makeup at home already.

But did I follow my own
rule? Nooooo.

Thus, I walked into
Sephora at a great disadvantage.

I told the clerk what I
wanted, and she suggested that one of their makeup experts could help me. She signed me up for a “mini-makeover.” But because it was Homecoming season and
there were all sorts of high school girls with perfect skin and wrinkle-free
eyelids getting made up for their big night, we were told there would be a
wait.

So Sesame and I started
playing around with makeup on our own.
We were having loads of fun trying new colors on our eyes and cheeks and
knowing we could walk out of there without purchasing a single item – when a
young woman with gauged ears, lip and eyebrow piercings and green (green?!) face makeup came over and said,
“Jane? You need a makeover?”

By this point, I could
easily have lied. And probably I should
have. How would she have known my name
was Jane unless she heard the cash register girl call me by name after she
swiped my card?

But, alas, I didn’t.

Oh, and by the way, this
is how intimidating it is to walk into Sephora in the first place. I didn’t even ask her why she was wearing
green face makeup. Could it have been a
Halloween thing? Or was it just her normal
look? Who knows.

Anyway, I told her all
about my makeup woes and why I was even looking for new eye shadow – so she
listened carefully and then selected a handful of products and steered me
toward the makeup table.

There she removed what
pathetically little eye makeup I was wearing and proceeded to paint me up. She
used Corrector. Lots of Corrector. She used under-eye concealer. She used
eyeliner and eyeshadow base and eyeshadow color. She rolled and swirled and
patted and swiped with all manner of brushes and pencils. And then she finished
with a swipe of mascara.

She intended to do only
one eye and then I was to recreate her masterpiece on the other eye, but I
implored her to do both. It’s not that I
don’t love a good challenge, but I wasn’t up to all that swirling and swiping
just then.

Fortunately, not the look she gave me!

Fortunately for me, she
did. And she did a great job, too. When she was all finished, my eyes looked brighter, which was the look I was going for. And I didn't look like an aging drag queen or anything! (Or at least no one said so to my face.) But I was even more thrilled that she made both eyes match because when I glanced down at my
watch, I was horrified to see it was nearly time to start decorating for the Oktoberfest!

So we paid for the
makeup and dashed out.

I was able to get home
to pick up the decorations and then head to the end of the cul-de-sac just in
time since the decorating crew had already set up the tables and were waiting for me to
bring the tablecloths and centerpieces.

So. Whew.

But next time I go to
the mall for a simple pedicure? I’ll have to force myself to stay far away from those utterly tempting black and white Sephora walls.

Oh, and incidentally, have
I been able to recreate the makeup look she gave me? Hahaha. No. No, I haven’t.

But there are a couple things I'm grateful for. One is that she didn't make me look like that dreaded aging drag queen.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

I watched an old Ellen
DeGeneres comedy clip about procrastination. About how she sat down to write on
her computer and, before she even started, noticed how dusty her desk was.So she went downstairs to get a cleaning rag,
but stopped to pet the cat.Which took
forever, of course, because cats have a tendency to act all cute when you give
them some attention. And then she noticed how disorganized her CD collection
was, so…

…well, you know how the
rest goes.

I laughed, of course,
because I recognized certain behaviors I had in common. Most of us do – right?

Except that I also
thought, but I’m not that bad.

And then I went into the
kitchen to make myself a salad for lunch.

But first I had to clean
up the dishes from breakfast because, God knows, you can’t make a mess when
there’s already a mess in there.

After that, I had to
make a pit stop because, well, running water does that to me. And I noticed the sheets were off the bed, which
reminded me they were in the washing machine.
So after I went to the bathroom, I walked over to the washer and
dryer. The clothes in the dryer were
dry, so I hauled the load out and put them on the bed to fold and put
away.

But then I remembered I
was making a salad for lunch, so I went back to the kitchen and washed the
lettuce leaves and tore them up for my salad.

Realizing I had left the
door to the dryer open – and the wet sheets were still sitting in the washing
machine not getting any drier – I went back to the washing machine and moved
the load to the dryer and started it.

Finally, I got back to
the kitchen to work on my salad. I cut
up vegetables and threw in some dried cranberries and slivered almonds, but
decided the salad needed a few garbanzo beans.
So I went to the pantry to get some.
While in there, I noticed how disorganized it was after our last shopping
trip, so I started turning cans face front and grouping like items and…

…and then it hit
me. Egad – I AM that bad a
procrastinator!

It took me an entire hour to make a salad that would
normally take about 5-10 minutes, tops!

Vince says this is ADD
behavior. He says he’s just as bad. He gets on the computer to do one thing and
then, forty-five minutes later, he can’t remember why he sat down in front of the
computer in the first place. Because it couldn’t
possibly have been to watch all those old Tim Conway clips from The Carol Burnett Show.

So now I’m wondering if I‘m
a procrastinator or if I simply have a touch of ADD.

…aaaand I just spent 20
minutes online looking up the differences between the two. Ack!
Plus, my research didn’t really answer the question as it was mostly
amateurs giving their opinions on the subject.

I have a theory that
with the proliferation of information at our fingertips, we all tend to get more
distracted these days. Used to be if you wondered about something, you either
had to look it up in the dictionary or encyclopedia (if your family was lucky
enough to own a set), or you had to take a trip to the local library to find
out. So it had to be a subject you were
really interested in learning about.

Now, we just hit up
Google over any little musing and then, before we even type in our query, we’re
distracted by something else.

Right now, I have about
five projects partly completed and awaiting my attention. And those are just
the projects staring me in the face. I
have lots of other ideas of projects I want to accomplish. Some of them may just take months and/or
years to come to fruition.

Fortunately for me, I
will eventually focus and get them all done.

Like this blog, for
instance. Just because it has taken me four
hours to write (well, maybe forty minutes to write and three hours and twenty
minutes of procrastination as my attention was diverted by other things), but I
will finish it.

But it isn’t without
some level of stress as I wonder why I can’t just start one project, finish it
and then move on to the next one.

I guess it all just makes
me human. And I’m in decent company. After
all, Ellen DeGeneres has managed to do pretty well for herself.

So I…oh look! There’s Twinks. She’s looking all cute curled up on the chair
next to me, so I need to pet her furry little bell…

Oh, never mind. Go ahead and call me a procrastinator. Tell me
I have ADD. I can take it.

Monday, October 12, 2015

Just last night we had
delivered to our home an old, slightly battered dining room table. It arrived from its former residence in
Wareham, Massachusetts.

It was a drop-leaf dining
room table that my grandparents had made back in 1952 when they built their summer
cottage on Cape Cod.

At first, I imagine my
grandparents only had to lift one leaf to make room for themselves and their two
daughters. And then when my mother and her sister both married, the table had
to be enlarged to include their husbands.

Eventually, my parents
had four children and my aunt and uncle had five children. Neither the table nor the cottage, for that
matter, could handle that large a group, so each family started visiting my
grandparents separately.

My family had the last
two weeks in August for our annual vacation to the Cape. There we played in the ocean every day and
each evening we moved that table, lifted the leaves on either side, and opened
it up for my grandparents, parents, and the four of us children to fit around
and eat our evening meal together.

There were countless family
lobster-fests held at that dining room table with the table completely covered
with lobsters and bowls of butter and platters filled with ears of corn on the
cob.

And even if we got lost
in the magic that is summer at the beach, we would always know it was Saturday
because – without fail – we would be called to the table for dinner and there
would be hot dogs, baked beans and coleslaw awaiting us. Well, the hot dogs
were one clue; the other was that we had to attend the 6:30 Saturday evening Mass.
And that was without fail, too.

In the mornings, we
weren’t quite as formal and usually ate breakfast in shifts, so both leaves of
the table remained down. Some of us
would eat our toast or bowl of cereal out on the porch anxiously awaiting the
moment when we were allowed to grab out towels and head to the beach.

I remember many years sitting
at that table writing out postcards to friends. For years we’d watch Nanna
writing out her grocery list while sitting at the table and then, years later
after Nanna was no longer with us, we’d watch Mom handling the same chore.

And I can remember many
evenings sitting around the table playing cards and board games with my sister
and brothers.

One year, when I was in
college, I remember watching my grandmother, aunt and mother sitting around the
table after dinner one night drinking Southern Comfort and getting a little
silly and even, I dare say, a little tipsy. But later, whenever I’d mention the
tipsy part to my mother, she’d get defensive and offended that I’d even make such an accusation. But, c’mon. I was in college by then. I knew tipsy
when I saw it. Yet it’s a memory that
makes me smile even today.

I imagine when the table
was new, it was shiny and clean and unmarked.
And despite all attempts at protecting it with tablecloths and
place mats, the decades have taken their toll on that old table and it is a
little marred and a little less shiny now.

So when the time came to
sell the cottage this summer, my elderly parents didn’t want the hassle of getting
rid of the furniture, so they opted to sell the place “as is.” My brother and I went up there in July to
clean the cottage and clear out my parents’ personal belongings, but were
leaving the furniture.

When we met with the
realtor, I told her that the one piece of furniture I’d like to have was that
dining room table. Knowing, of course,
that it would never fit in my little red Audi, I wondered how I would get it to
Ohio.

My brother thought he
might return to the cottage for one last weekend with his wife and some friends
later in the summer, and I knew that table would fit easily in his truck. And it would have, but when it came to making
the decision to revisit the cottage one last time, he decided that he’d already
said his last goodbyes to the place, and he changed his mind. So I thought I had lost my chance.

I was tempted to just let
it go – much as we had let go of the cottage itself – but Vince convinced me
that it was worth a couple hundred dollars to have the table shipped to
us.

And so, with the help of
the realtor, we did just that.

True, it’s not a
valuable heirloom. It wouldn’t fetch thousands of dollars on that Antiques Roadshow program. And it would never be
featured in a House Beautiful publication.

But that old, slightly
battered dining room table is – to me – priceless. I’ve walked by it a half a dozen times today
and each time I do, I smile just looking at it.

I also smile knowing
that I’m married to a caring husband who recognized the value of that scarred
old table. And I know that new memories
will be made around that table.

Even if it isn’t sitting in our dining
room.

And even if we don’t eat hot dogs and baked beans and cole
slaw every Saturday night.

Saturday, October 3, 2015

I was in Alliance last
weekend visiting my parents and two of my three siblings and their spouses. It
was nice to all be together, although we missed my sister and her family.And Vince wasn't able to join us either since he was working.

But it’s sort of a good
thing that there weren’t four additional people crammed into my parents’ family
room. Our collective body heat would
have sent the temperature inside the house soaring to near triple digits.

I know I recently wrote
a blog complaining about the heat at my parents' house, but I’m telling you, my
mother has the thermostat set so high I’m fearful one day one of us might spontaneously
combust.

And with my luck, it
would probably be me.

Fortunately, my brother
Andrew and I decided to get away from the inferno by taking a little trip to
the Carnation mall. It’s not like we were
trying to relive our youth by hanging out at the mall hoping to see some of our
high school friends; we actually had a purpose for going there. Besides, that mall wasn’t even around in our
youth.

No, what we were doing
was attending an event my good friend Diana created in honor of her late dog,
Sampson. It was the inaugural debut of
the Sampson’s Salvation Adopt-a-thon.

Sampson was an
11-year-old border collie/chow mix and a cherished member of Diana’s family,
but when he wandered off their property a couple years ago, he was senselessly shot,
killed and then buried by someone living nearby. It was a horrific act that sent Diana and her
husband and daughter into a tailspin. This individual was tried and fined and sentenced
to jail for 30 days, which is a mere slap on the wrist for something so
heinous. But at least he didn’t get away
with it without any repercussions whatsoever.

Since that time, Diana
has spent many hours volunteering at shelters, walking dogs and advocating for
the rights of animals. And Sampson’s Salvation Adopt-a-thon was her
first effort at helping various shelters raise money and awareness of their
adoption and foster programs – all in memory of her beloved pet.

So my brother and I
first stopped at a pet store and picked up a gargantuan bag of dog food to
donate to one of the shelters.
Fortunately, Andrew was there to haul the bag around as I probably
would’ve needed surgery to repair my broken shoulder after trying to lift the
bag. Those suckers are heavy!

This worked in Andrew’s
favor, however, as he is the one who brought it to the donation table and then
filled out his name and address as an
entry for one of the door prizes (even though we split the cost of the bag of
dog food).

But I suppose if you do
the heavy lifting, you should be the one to reap the benefits. (This is me trying to be all adult-like and
mature - right?)

Diana’s husband,
daughter and siblings were all there in support of her event as were a couple
high school friends – so it was fun to talk and catch up and take some
photos.

There were tables set up
and manned by various local rescue and shelter organizations and lots of gift
baskets that were being raffled off with the donations to benefit the shelters.

And there were dogs and
cats on-site hoping to be adopted into good homes.

It was a fantastic
effort and I was even more impressed when I learned that Diana put together
this entire event in only three short weeks.

When it was over, all of
the animals on-site had completed adoption applications and I am hopeful that they
have all since gone to live in happy homes.

And that’s really what
it’s all about, isn’t it? Animals have
an incredible capacity to love their humans – even if some humans don’t deserve
such love.

But for the majority of
us (I’m thinking positively here), we cherish our pets – so much so that they
truly become part of our families.

I have never understood
how someone could adopt a pet – and then leave them out in the cold or give
them up or not take care of them properly.
Because those animals almost certainly love their humans unconditionally.

It’s so easy to love a
pet. Sure, there are messes
sometimes. Take our cat Twinklebelle, for
instance. She regularly yaks up hairballs that require heavy-duty cleaning,
particularly when she decides the white carpet in the living room is the
perfect place for her hairball donation. And she tends to
take flying leaps off our laps whenever she gets startled, which can leave vicious
claw-marks on our legs.

And I can't imagine there is anyone out there who really likes cleaning the litter box. Or who loves following their dog around with a pooper scooper.

But our Twinks is the most
lovable kitty, and purrs like a race car when you give her even a tiny bit of attention.

And, in my book, that
makes every hairball clean-up worth it. Besides, I never did like that white carpet all that much anyway.

So I just wanted to give
a Jane’s Domain “shout-out” (do people even say that anymore?!) to Diana for
her successful event – and cheer her on for next year’s Second Annual Sampson’s Salvation Adopt-a-thon. I’ve already
promised to give her a hand – and I know she’ll take me up on it. When it comes to our furry friends, they have
no greater champion than Diana.

Go Di!!

Oh, and PS, my brother ended up winning the prize for the dog food donation. But, I, too, was lucky and I won the Ohio State Gift Basket. I'd say that's a win-win all around - for our furry friends and for us!

About Me

People have compared my writing style to Dave Barry or the late Erma Bombeck, which I find flattering because I admire their writing style. I want people who read my stuff to feel like I'm sitting in the room talking with them and sharing stories and life observations.

Over the years I've been told I should write "for real." Friends and colleagues have suggested I take a stab at writing children's books or newspaper or magazine articles. I've even submitted an article or ten. No one, however, has suggested how I should pay for the roof over my head while I'm waiting to be discovered. So I've gotten 'regular' jobs where I occasionally get to work out my left brain, which has been rewarding.

And then I discovered blogging. Does blogging count as writing? We'll see. So far I'm enjoying the process.